The Terrible Quiet
by tickletalia
Summary: Italy Veneciano didn't like it when his brother was quiet. Because with Italy Romano, quiet meant hurt. Tickle fic.


Italy Veneciano didn't like it when his brother was quiet.

Most would assume the opposite—why would he want him to be loud and yelling, after all—but he didn't care. Because the others didn't know his brother like he did.

He knew that when Italy Romano was yelling, it meant he felt the same as he always did, or even better. But when he was quiet, it meant he was so upset he didn't know a proper word for it.

When he was quiet, it meant he had given up on yelling. It meant he had realized that raising his voice wouldn't make anything better, and so he didn't. But he didn't talk normally—No, he just got quiet.

So quiet, in fact, that you didn't notice that he was there, or if you did you would simply look over at him uncomfortably.

"Isn't he supposed to be that loud one?" someone would whisper.

"Yeah, isn't he related to Italy in some way?" the other would whisper back.

Veneciano didn't get that. They were both Italy, but he was always the one referred to as it, while his brother was called Romano. So sure, politically he had more power over the country, and maybe both of them had accepted that a long time ago and Romano had stopped going to meetings shortly afterwards, and maybe he could fight the slightest bit better—But that was only because his fratello didn't care about fighting! Not that he did, but . . .

Maybe he did get it, but that didn't mean he accepted it.

But sometimes his fratello did. And sometimes, he stopped yelling, stopped shouting, and stopped fighting. Sometimes he accepted it, and he grew quiet.

Like now.

He had seen the hints, but had turned his back. Spain would help him, he told himself. Don't worry, he said. He was wrong. And now he had to make it right.

So, he called Germany. He flipped his phone out, dialing his number slowly instead of pressing the speed dial.

"G-Germany?" he stuttered.

"Eh, Italy? What's wrong? You aren't captured, are you?"

"No, no, I'm fine. It's just that—well . . . ," he trailed off.

"Well, what Italy?" Germany said tightly. "Just spit it out already, I was in the middle of training."

"Sorry!" he blurted out quickly. "It's just that Romano's being quiet."

A pause.

"That's it?" Germany asked, sounding partly relieved and partly annoyed.

"Well . . . yeah," he answered unsurely, before jumping to his defense, "But Romano is never quiet, and when he is something bad has happened! Well, either that or he ate some of England's food, but we haven't seen England in so long! And he's been like this for a few days now, and he hasn't called England a bastard more than usual so it can't be his food! That means something happened and I'm worried," he said, dragging the last word in an over exaggerated whine.

Germany sighed, used to the Italian's behavior.

"If you're really that worried, why don't you just talk to him?" he asked.

"I can't do that!" Italy exclaimed.

"Why not?"

"Because . . ." he trailed off again.

"Because why, Italy?" Germany said sternly.

Because we really aren't as close as I wish we could be, and he may get really angry, but not his usual anger. He may just decides that he hates me and wants me to stay out of his life forever, and what if Italy went into civil war? That would be really bad because I don't like being hurt, but it would be so much worse because it would be against my only family left and I don't want him to get hurt either! It would just be an endless sea of bloodshed and betrayal! It really scares me, and I don't want it to happen.

Italy stayed silent.

"Italy, you can't always be so irresponsible and expect others to do everything else for you. If you're worried, you go talk to him."

"Yes, Capt'n," he said, much more subdued than usual. There was silence on the other side of the line.

"Look, Italy," Germany started, only to cut himself off and start again. "If you really—No, I mean," he sighed. "I'm not trying to be, you know, mean. It's just that I couldn't help in this situation even if I wanted to. Your brother hates me. I'd probably just make the situation worse."

"Veh? Don't say that Germany! You've gotten me out of so much trouble I couldn't keep count even if I wanted to! You're so strong and manly and you can save me from any danger! But this is family. And family stays within family. Hasta la pasta, Germany! Thanks for the help!"

Italy smiled as he hung up his phone. Even when Germany didn't save him he saved him.

Then he remembered he actually had to do it.

"R-Romano?" Veneciano said, knocking on the door frame nervously, "Can I come in?"

His brother looked up, his glare tired and weak.

"That door's open, isn't it?" he asked, his voice lacking its regular scorn.

Italy stepped into the room hesitantly, as if Romano would change his mind any second and start yelling. But he was able to walk through the room and crouch down next to his brother without retribution.

He frowned. It was worse than he thought.

Well, he was here, and Romano was there, and he should be talking about feelings, but when Italy opened his mouth it was bone dry, and he couldn't possibly talk like that, so he shut it. And he shut it the second, third, and fifth time too.

Why was this so much easier in his head? It always worked out there, and then they would all laugh, and be happy, and eat gelato and pasta.

But this wasn't his head.

Italy took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and kept it open, even when no words came out. He sat there, like a fish out of water, for what seemed like minutes, but was really just seconds.

"Just spit it out already!"

The words shocked Italy out of his stupor, and he tackled his brother in a hug, hardly noticing when they fell over. He blubbered out random words that didn't even make sense to him, but he didn't care because this was his brother, and his brother wasn't allowed to be quiet because that meant he was upset, and he didn't like it when he was upset. His mouth didn't even stop until Romano started pushing him away.  
"Get off of me, you damn bastard!" he shouted, squirming as he did so.

Italy tilted his head to side before a smile blossomed on his lips. The way he had landed on his brother had trapped his arms beneath him, making it harder for him to escape. He put his arms on his brother's chest to push himself up, giggling slightly.

"You look so silly Romano," he said gleefully.

"I don't care! Just get off," Romano demanded.

Italy was about to when he realized a bit of fire had returned to his brother's eyes. His own widened as he realized that this was actually helping Romano, even if he didn't realize it.

"Y-You look oddly nervous, veh? It's kinda weird," Italy said, giggling nervously as he tried to stall getting off.

"I'm not nervous, damn it! A-and stop doing that weird thing with your hands," Romano commanded as he squirmed some more.

"Eh?" Italy said as he looked down, realizing he had been trying to fiddle with his hands (a nervous habit) but had only succeeded in moving his hands awkwardly over the other's chest. He opened his mouth to apologize, and the words were even halfway out of his mouth, when he realized something.

"Romano, why are you smiling?" he asked.

Immediately, any sense of mirth disappeared. Romano glared fiercer than he had the entire week as he answered.

"I'm not smiling, now get the fuck off," he said, eyes burning furiously.

But Italy was curious. He repeated the action, and sure enough, the brunette's lips twitched before he once again demanded that he got off of him right this instance Veneciano!

"Why are you smiling?" Italy asked, his smile turning mischievous, "I mean, if you're angry, shouldn't you be not smiling?"

"I'm not smiling, and—Hey! I thought I told you to stop doing that thing with your hands!" Romano said, his face distorting before he managed to forge it back into a frown.

"Romano," Italy whined, "you didn't answer my question!"

"Yes I did! I told you, you're delusional. I didn't fucking smile."

"But I saw you!" he insisted.

"Well, you saw wrong,"

"But you did it twice!" Veneciano reminded him.

"No, you saw it wrong twice! Now let me up," Romano repeated.

Italy blinked and pouted slightly.

"I don't believe you," he said, making Romano splutter indignantly.

"Y-You—" he stuttered, before his eyes burned ferociously and—

And he squeaked.

"Veh," Italy sighed sadly. "That's not a smile."

"Of course it fucking isn't!" Romano exploded. "Why the fuck would fucking poking me get me to fucking smile, you damn bastard! Now get the hell off of me before I do something I regret."

Italy hesitated, but eventually shook his head, making the other's eyes blaze even brighter. Angrily, he opened his mouth, and Italy squeezed his sides in a panic.

A sound similar to a dying cat hit his ears instead of a yell, and the pieces clicked together in his mind. The smiling, the denial, the nervousness—it all made sense now!

His fratello was ticklish.

"O-oi, bastard, what's with the smile? I-it's really fucking weird, a-and—Hey! D-don't do that, dammit!"

A devious smile had made its way onto Italy's face, and he started tapping his fingers on his brother's stomach as if he was impatient.

"Stop what?" he asked, lips twitching as he tried to hide his excitement.

"You know what, you bastard!" Romano said, his voice wavering as he once again tried to squirm away.

"No I don't," he said, remembering the trick his nono would always use on him.

"Yes. You. Do."

"No. I. Don't," Italy mimicked, poking him with every word.

"Hey!"

"Hi."

"Just stop . . ." he trailed off, not wanting to say it, before growing loud again. "Just stop poking me, dammit!"

"But I always poke you. Why does it bother you now?"

"B-because, um, because—dammit! Just don't do it!"

"Okay," Italy replied, squeezing his sides instead.

"Gah! Don't—AH!" Something akin to a dry snort left Romano as he tried failingly to keep his face from breaking into a smile. He glued his lips together, eyes shining.

"Don't what, Romano? How am I supposed to know what not to do if you don't tell me?" Italy said, but Romano simply pressed his lips together and shook his head.

"Romano!" Italy whined, dragging out the word.

South Italy glared at him. He didn't say a thing.

"Fine," Italy pretended to sniff, "be that way." Then he started skittering his long fingernails (Germany always told him to cut them, but he never got around to it) over his brother's ribs. He decided that once he was angry enough to start on a rant he would stop. Right now he was only annoyed.

But annoyed or not, he was certainly cursing up a storm, having given up on being silent almost immediately. It seemed that for every chuckle he cursed twice, and for every laugh thrice.

That wouldn't do.

Italy moved his hands clumsily down the ribs to Romano's stomach, not used to being the tickler instead of the ticklee. He scratched the skin at first, but a swift, "OUCH! What the fuck are you trying to do? Massacre me?" quickly told him that wasn't what he was supposed to do. He snatched his hands away.

"I'm sorry! Are you okay? I didn't mean to—"

"I'm fine," Romano said crisply. "Now get off."

Italy felt a small pang of guilt, but shook his head. Romano was still only annoyed, edging on angry.

He slowly started scratching his belly again, but so lightly that his nails barely touched the skin. And like the light touches, the giggles were just as light. Italy Romano shifted from side to side, not quite cursing.

Veneciano did this for a while, slowly picking up pace and finding a medium between barely touching and hurting his brother that made him roar. He moved from scratching his ribs, to poking his stomach, to scribbling his nails over his sides, mentally wondering if one was worse than the other. But that was a question for another day.

Italy tweaked Romano's side with one hand while using his nails to tickle the other, and Romano made a noise that wasn't human, so naturally, he did it again.

("It's for his health," he reminded himself when he started giggling at Romano's half garbled curses.)

But even though he giggled and laughed alongside his brother, he made sure not to overdo it, conveniently slowing down when Romano started gasping for breath.

He was in the middle of this when he noticed Romano was starting to become more tired instead of loud. Veneciano realized with a start that he must have been tickling him too long. He jumped off, spluttering out apologizes as Romano toke in greedy gulps of air.

But Romano gained his breath surprisingly fast, and immediately started cussing him out. He started ranting, but Italy blanked out, giggling now that his brother was no longer quiet. And that was way worth the however long lecture. He was abruptly brought back to reality, however, when his brother suddenly tackled him

"Funny! You think this is funny? I'll show you funny!" he yelled, digging his fingers into his stomach, one of his worsts spots.

He wasn't quite sure it was worth the tickling.


End file.
